


Feathers in the Garden

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Anathema Device, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: Newt stares at the new additions to their front garden.He cautiously steps out and pokes one of the darker mounds of feathers. It is surprisingly soft, actually. Now that he’s drawn closer and is in a position to see over the massive wings – yep, definitely huge, ridiculous wings – he thinks he might actually recognise the limp bodies they’re attached to.Now is a really bad time for Anathema to have went on that book tour.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 215
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	Feathers in the Garden

Newt stares at the new additions to their front garden. He blinks, turns around, steps back into the house and pinches himself. When he peeks back out past the open door they haven’t moved. They’re all still there. All the feathers and limbs and – and feathers. His fingers find each other and wind together worriedly. Anathema would know what to do about this. Her ancient ancestor would have, probably. 

They might have made a mistake, burning the second book. 

He cautiously steps out and pokes one of the darker mounds of feathers. It is surprisingly soft, actually. Now that he’s drawn closer and is in a position to see over the massive wings – yep, definitely huge, ridiculous wings – he thinks he might actually recognise the limp bodies they’re attached to. 

He normally isn’t very good at faces, but when you’ve narrowly avoided a nuclear armageddon followed by the embodiment of the devil himself rupturing a tear in reality in front of you, it makes sense when the memory of your fellow survivors become burned onto the back of your retinas. For self-preservation purposes if nothing else, as it appeared everybody else there had a better clue of what was going on than he did at any point during the proceedings. Also, he's fairly sure one of them is in the exact same outfit as they were wearing on that confusing day. He really hopes they’ve found the time to wash it sometime between the failed end of days and collapsing in his front garden. 

Now is a really bad time for Anathema to have went on that book tour. 

“Um,” he prods hesitantly, “hello?” He tries to lightly lift the dark wing, intending to rustle it in the equivalent of a shoulder shake that people always seem to try but it feels heavier than he expected. He wonders how the person can fly with wings this unwieldy. Or maybe they can’t, like ostriches. Their back must really hurt, lugging two massive extra limbs around. He thinks he would have remembered if either of them had wings back on the airbase. It was a very confusing day, but that seems like the kind of thing he would have noticed. As he pulls his hand away again he notices it feels sticky. Blood. There’s blood on his hands. From the feathers. From the wings. The wings that are attached to the unconscious almost-strangers. Oh no. 

Newt swallows and glances around. It's still very early. Or very late, depending on when a person usually seeks their bed. It has barely broken dawn and there are two unconscious bird-people in his front garden. Bleeding. Newt supposes he should take them inside, before somebody sees and starts asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. It probably is a good thing that loud noise woke him. It was likely the sound of their landing come to think of it. Or their crashing. He has no idea how to heal birds. 

Navigating the feathers is more difficult than expected; he almost steps on the white feathers before he realises they’re splayed out much wider than the huddled black arch he’d been poking at. He gives them a stroke, just in case, but their owner doesn’t respond. The blood is much easier to see against the pure white. They feel soft as well, though they look more tussled and ruffled out of place. Their owner is the easier to reach, once he’s danced around them carefully, lying silently on his back in the grass. He pats the man’s cheek hopefully but doesn’t even get an eye flicker. He seems to be breathing though at least, so that’s something. 

Newt struggles to pull him up enough that he can get his hands beneath the man’s shoulders. He has no idea how he could attempt to carry the man with his massive wings splaying out, and Newt doesn’t have great confidence in his upper body strength anyway, so dragging will have to do. It’s the only feasible way he can picture getting them into the house and he can’t exactly leave them out here. The feathers crumple against the damp grass as he steps backwards, straining with the weight. He feels unaccountably guilty as the wings bend and curve with their owners unconscious movement, trailing listlessly behind as he drags the man towards the door overhang. 

The black mound slumps as the white wing is pulled out from under it, twisting awkwardly against the ground. Newt grimaces and wonders if it hurts but he’s fairly sure that if he stops, his arm muscles will go on strike and refuse to pull the white-feathered man any further. He realises he has a problem once he reaches the door. He doesn’t want to strip the feathers off the already battered looking wings but the doorway will only agree to being so wide. He lowers the man so his head is resting just before the door and steps around him, thinking. He cautiously picks up the edge of one wing and gently tries to fold it closer in on itself. There’s no conscious rejection of his manipulations but the wing also doesn’t seem to want to bend that way. He has no idea how birds tuck in their wings but he tries again anyway. Eventually he finds some sort of configuration that the bones and muscles and feathers seem happy enough with and he manipulates the other wing to follow suit. He ends up with both wings loosely tucked in on themselves and wrapped over the man’s chest. It makes him think of the sparrow that hit his window and fell dead in his garden when he was nine. Or a vampire bat. Maybe the bird man is like a feathered Dracula and got stuck trying to shapeshift into a dove. He goes back to trying to drag them into the house. 

It is still a struggle, but significantly less of one and he manages to get the white-feathered man into the living room. He grabs a pillow off the couch and slips it under the poor guys head. He stands there for a moment, not sure what else to do. There’s still another winged man out front. He pats the man reassuringly on the shoulder and tells him he’s just fetching his friend. 

The black-winged mass isn’t as helpfully splayed out as the other man was, face-down instead of lying on his back. His head is tilted to the side though, and Newt can see the grass bending with his breathing so he hasn’t managed to suffocate himself. He decides he really doesn’t want to try flipping the man over with all those fluffed feathers and maybe broken wings so he just hooks him under the arms and starts dragging. 

Everything’s fine until they reach the porch and then he’s met with some life from one of them for the first time. The black-winged man flinches and then one of his hands twitches up and starts clawing at Newts arm. He drops him in surprise. There’s a weird noise coming from the man, like a strangled kitten. At the same time, Newt becomes aware of a growing hissing above his head. He looks up in alarm. The horseshoe embedded in the roof of the porch is glowing. Which is strange. 

The man keeps mewling and his fingers keep twitching but he doesn’t seem to be managing much else. Newt hurries around to his other side and drags him away from the door by his feet. There’s a weak attempt at a kick but otherwise the man doesn’t resist, even as the feathers twist in on themselves. The horseshoe stops glowing and the man falls silent again. 

The other one didn’t have any trouble with the horseshoe. Considering what Anathema has told him about their house and its protections, he’s getting the feeling he shouldn’t be bringing the dark-feathered one in. Their greeting porch is supposed to be warded against evil creatures and demonic entities and the like and it clearly doesn’t like this man. On the other hand, it’s too early and the man has ridiculously oversized wings and is bleeding in Newt’s garden and whimpering like a kitten. Besides, the house seemed fine with the other one and they seemed friendly enough with each other on the airbase. People who helped stop the Apocalypse should stick together, shouldn’t they? Newt disappears inside to find a ladder. 

The horseshoe isn’t easy to pry off – he’s worried the house knows what he’s doing and is unhappy with his efforts. It pops off eventually though and he tosses it into the grass away from the silent man. If the guy was awake he’s clearly passed out again. Either that, or his reaction to the horseshoe was some weird instinctual reaction. Anathema has been away for a few days, so any evil-repelling herb burning and things like that should be old enough that Newt hopes it won’t be an issue. The other odds and ends that the black-winged man might take offense to are easy enough to store away while he’s returning the ladder. 

The wings are an issue again, of course, but he makes do. One of them doesn’t want to bend right though, which is a little worrying. He drags the second man into their living room and lays him out nearby the white-feathered one while he tries to decide what to do next. After a thought he goes back and locks the front door. 

Everything hurts. He can barely convince his corporation to keep breathing and his wings are searing bolts of agony against his back. Something took the angel away from him and he couldn’t even stop them. He’s fairly sure reality keeps slipping in and out of his tentative grasp. 

Whatever took Aziraphale came back for him as well, and wherever they tried to take him sent a spike of _hurt_ through his being. His wing feels wrong. They’d tried so hard to get away. Something tugs at his back and it causes the fire to roar. He can’t even try to get away from the agony as they stretch out his wing, his eyes managing to crack open in desperate panic as he watches his feathers spreading flat at his side. They’re pulling out his wing, the limb limp and vulnerable and Crowley can’t stop them. It _shifts_ and it’s a spike of pure pain and he knows, he _knows_ it’s broken. He felt it snap in that last desperate attempt to direct their landing. His eyes swim as he forces his body to keep breathing, stuttering gasps. Someone crouches down next to his helpless wing and they have a _weapon._

“ ** _M-_** ** _mer-_** ** _cy_**.” He claws the futile beg out of his throat, the only thing he can try to stall them. His fingers twitch as their head swivels toward him but his strength is gone; he has nothing else left to offer. His vision tunnels as they bend down to meet his eyes and he can barely hear them over the thundering beat in his ears. If he’s with an angel, his sickening eyes are only going to stoke their ire. He squeezes them closed and silently begs them to leave him his sight. 

“Are you awake?” Newt asks incredulously. He catches a glimpse of golden slitted eyes before they disappear and he’s reminded vaguely of a cat. It would probably be pretty disturbing, if he didn’t remember seeing them at the airfield as the man-sans-wings had backed up Adam. He’s pretty confident he’s helping a demon, and he’s trying not to think about that at the moment. Then again he was a witch finder briefly and when he actually met a witch she was very nice. It’s probably better if he doesn’t judge. 

The demon just asked him for help anyway and that’s kind of like an implied deal so he should be safe from the man now so long as he doesn’t annoy them. He thinks. He’s never heard somebody say, “mercy,” before except in books and movies, and even then they normally go with the more usual, “help” or understood “please” or “Oh god everything hurts, save me!” He feels uncomfortable that the man’s asking him for mercy; it makes it sound like he thinks Newt is trying to hurt him. 

Newt doesn’t know how to look after a bird but he knows that you need to set broken bones; he learned that in the scouts. And with three wings that all seem to bend the same and one that doesn’t, it appears pretty obvious that one of them is broken. He twists the rounded chair leg in his hands self-consciously. He’d unscrewed it from one of the kitchen chairs, hoping it would work, but he can’t simply twist it around with bandages like on a leg. The wing is _huge_ ; and belongs to a probably-demon. It can’t be that simple, can it? 

He hovers a hand over the still feathers, startling as he realises he can see the floor through gaps in the wing. Oh. _Oh_. The poor man. No wonder he’s worried about what Newt might do to him, he probably doesn’t even realise where he is. Newt isn’t a vet. He should call a vet. He tries to consider how he would explain two men with giant wings, that may or may not be an angel and a demon, to Mr Grant if he dragged him to a house visit. 

The white and red feathered man twitches. Newt postpones his splinting idea and scrambles over to the maybe-probably-an-angel. There’s a glint beneath the man’s coat collar, a glimpse of metal that Newt had dismissed when he was distracted with the task of just getting them in the house but as he tugs the man’s collar down it becomes obvious it isn’t just a necklace or other innocuous piece of jewellery. He has no idea what any of the arcane scribbles on the slip of metal _mean_. Anathema would probably know. It’s a fifty-fifty toss whether the metal banded round the man’s throat is helping or hurting him but he hasn’t moved since Newt found them and his companion has a broken wing with gaps through it as though somebody stabbed him, so Newt decides to err on the side of pessimism and assume the worst. He really hopes he isn’t going to take something off that’s actually keeping the man alive. 

He feels around the metal banding but he can’t find any obvious latching to the point where he has to straddle the man and pull him upright against his shoulder so he can get a proper look at the back of it. White wings drape listlessly against the man’s back and Newt hopes they aren’t broken in a way he hasn’t noticed because he’s probably only making things worse if so. There’s a complicated clip at the back of the metal, over the man’s spine, and it takes Newt using both hands to unlatch it successfully. A wheezing cough grates over his shoulder as he peels the contraption away and he blinks at the indent left behind in the skin of the man’s throat. He pats their back reassuringly as they relearn how to breathe without the choker. He hopes that means he did the right thing. 

After thinking it through, he decides the man would probably be more comfortable on his front. He never is himself, but he doesn’t have two extra limbs poking out of his back and he knows how irritated Anathema gets when she tries to move and finds he’s lying on her hair. Feathers seem like they might be more sensitive than that. He pulls them backwards with him, trying not to lean on their wings. It takes some manoeuvring but they get there eventually. He tucks the pillow back under their head and makes sure they’re somewhat on their side so they can keep breathing. He studies their wrists after he’s got them settled and finds slim bracelets that he hadn’t bothered about before he’d noticed the scribbles on the choker. He untwists them too, needing both hands again, feeling the shudder that runs through the man when he unlocks the second one. He checks the man’s ankles after that, just to be sure, but he doesn’t find anymore little bands. The dark-winged man seems clear of them too, which he guesses is a good thing. 

While he’s trying to work out his next step he nips back outside and gathers up the loose feathers scattered around the garden then hoses down the grass and the front porch so it doesn’t look like he slaughtered a bunch of huge vultures this morning. When he gets back inside, he realises the angel must have woken up briefly because one of their wings has pulled up just enough to cover the demons collapsed, folded wing. When he skirts around them he finds the dark un-stretched wing still limp and curled into the man’s side, white feathers pressing lightly around it. He was right then, to assume they’d crashed here together. If he hadn’t seen them both at the airbase, happily tolerating one another, he would probably have thought they were fighting and only helped the white-winged man, like the horseshoe wanted him to. It almost looks protective, the white wing-tip curling against the other man’s back. He still doesn’t know what to do about the wings. 

He settles for a tub of warm water and a sponge, working on teasing the feathers clean. That, at least, is within his capabilities. He needs to be able to see past the matting blood, to find out what’s wrong. Or for the vet to find out what’s wrong. Newt had tried calling through the land-line but the phone had been busy. He’ll try again in a little while. 

He starts on the broken wing, because it’s already stretched out and seems the worst off by a long way. A low hissing noise makes him worried he somehow left the stove on, before he realises its coming from the man that the wing is attached to. His companion doesn’t make a sound but the white wingtip twitches further across the man’s back. Newt tries to reassure them as he drains the sponge into the reddening tub but he’s not sure either of them hear him. There are a lot of feathers. 

He tries the vets again after he’s cleaned as much of the broken wing as he feels comfortable with and this time someone picks up. Newt debates simply asking for advice but he doesn’t want to end up hurting them more just because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Mr Grant agrees to a house call and Newt hangs up before he can change his mind. 

He fetches blankets from the hall cupboard and covers his two charges with them. It isn’t an effective disguise by any stretch, and the wings are clearly disproportionate to any pet birds but maybe he and the vet can get through this with some wilful ignorance. 

Mr Grant stares at the expanse of feathers lain out before him when he’s guided into the living room. He’d cleaned the entranceway of blood and feathers and mud before the vet visited. “That’s not a raven,” Mr Grant notes evenly, “or a dove.” 

Newt wrings his hands nervously and points to the splayed wing. “I think it’s broken,” he prompts pleadingly. Mr Grant stares for a few minutes longer then works his feet forward. Newt follows him meekly. 

It doesn’t take long for the vet to mutely nod his agreement of Newt’s conclusion. He casts a critical eye over the rest of the wing as they kneel beside it and shakes his head. “What,” he demands, pointing at the ragged tears, “happened?” Now that the wing is more free of matting clumps, the holes look deliberately rounded. As though somebody had forcefully driven stakes through the feathered membrane. 

Newt spreads his hands helplessly, “They crashed.” 

Mr Grant stares at him. “Well,” he acknowledges, “I can see why.” He twists, seeking the other wing, finds it hidden under a mass of white. The vet reaches out under the white feathers, gently lifting the wing away as he studies the huddled darker limb. Newt watches the white wingtip curl weakly around the vets hand as it is unwillingly removed. “Hold this,” the vet prompts and Newt reaches out to keep the white feathers held clear as Mr Grant runs his fingers over the huddled limb. As the vet starts manipulating the wing open there’s a definite low hiss from beneath the blankets. The vet stops and stares. “What _are_ they?” 

“Um,” Newt winces, “exotic...eagles?” Then, realising he has to give the vet something before he’s left alone to deal with them himself, or has the RSPCA called on him, “I...I think this one’s an angel.” He teases the white feathers apart as evidence, feeling the wingtip twitch. 

Mr Grant considers that, looking between the white feathers Newt holds and the jet-black ones between his own hands. “ _That_ one?” he asks faintly. Newt looks away awkwardly. “It definitely needs splinted,” the vet finally says, “though I’m not sure what to do about the tears other than patching them and giving them time.” He gives the blanket a terrified look. “Normally, I’d give the animal a full check-up, might even recommend ...well, if the bird was in a poor enough state, which its wings certainly attest to ...though that obviously shouldn’t apply here. I don’t even know how you’d go _about_ , erm... _that_.” 

“Can you?” Newt prompts when the vet trails off and seems to have forgotten how to speak. “Splint it, that is. And patch the tears, somehow?” The feathers in his hands spread outwards, as though trying to reach for their companion. 

“Theoretically,” Mr Grant concedes, splaying the wing he’s holding as far as he’s able, “if it conforms to, err, _earthly_ expectations.” He frowns and teases a patch of feathers aside as he studies another ragged hole in the opposing wing. The whole wing flinches and he freezes. “I’m not going to end up...cursed, am I? From all this?” 

“I hope not,” Newt commiserates, which doesn’t appear to reassure the vet overly much, “He asked for help, kind of, so I think it’s fine. Besides,” he hefts the white wing lightly, “there’s an angel here as well. Should cancel out, right?” 

Mr Grant looks at him as if he had just told him that the Apocalypse already came and went when nobody was paying attention. “I’m going to have to tell my mother that she’s right,” he realises, “I’m going to have to go to a confessional and tell them I wrapped a demons wing.” 

“ _No,”_ a rapid hiss echoes from beneath the blanket, causing the vet to snatch his hands away from the wing in fright. A low whine reverberates as the wing falls back against the ground. Newt hastily lowers the white wing back over top of it, patting the bleached feathers apologetically. Mr Grant had scrambled backwards at the sound, eyes locked on the hidden creature. 

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Newt offers with a small smile, trying not to panic. 

“I’m not,” Mr Grant barks back, “I mean, _wasn’t._ It _spoke_ , you didn’t tell me it could speak!” 

“He hasn’t,” Newt defends himself, “much. I thought he’d passed out again, to be honest.” He lifts the edge of the blanket, figuring the sight of the man couldn’t be any scarier now than whatever the vet is conjuring up in his head. Even if he did have giant black wings coming out of his back. Solid golden eyes slam shut as the light hits them. Newt looks back over at the vet, who seems slightly nauseous. 

“Bloody hell,” Mr Grant gasps, but he pulls himself cautiously closer again when it becomes obvious the demon-man isn’t moving. The vets shadow falls across the man and they both watch as a tremor rolls through his body, shivering out across his wings. 

“ _Mercy,”_ the man begs, eyes staying resolutely shut. The gasping plea seems to drive all remaining energy out of him, leaving him struggling weakly for breath. Newt looks over at Mr Grant hopefully. Mr Grant looks back at him, horrified. 

“Maybe don’t tell your priest?” Newt encourages, “when you find one. Or, um, risk praying about it. I don’t think the other angels would be very fond of him.” The vet’s eyes stray to where white feathers are curling over black ones. “I don’t know what’s going on there either,” Newt admits, “but I know they’re friends, or something like it. Can’t be all bad, if an angel likes him.” He looks back down at the man, but his eyes are still screwed shut. He looks less like he’s passed out and more like he’s deliberately trying to avoid looking at them. 

“Wings,” Mr Grant concedes, “I can deal with wings. I know wings. Even if they are larger than they have any right to be.” He grabs Newts shoulder and directs him closer to the splayed wing. He takes Newts hands and curls them firmly either side of the broken arch. The wing trembles. “Hold it,” the vet demands, “Hold it _still_. Normally I could do this myself but that’s with a budgie or a blue-tit, not...” Mr Grant fails to finish his sentence, grabbing bandages and soft padding out of his bag. Newt stays put obediently and holds the wing tightly in place against its faint twitching when the splint is pushed into place. Strangled hisses and gasps come from the man as they bind the wing, and Newt tries to focus on how much better the limb will feel once they’re done. Whatever reserves of energy were dug into for the pitiful flinching while they bound the splint seem to have been exhausted by the time Mr Grant moves onto patching the tears. The wing lies deathly limp throughout. 

They have to drag the man further into the room in order to spread his second wing fully. Rather, Newt drags him further into the room and Mr Grant watches the white wingtip flicker weakly as it seeks a companion that’s been moved out of range. Newt expects the man to hiss at them again when Mr Grant spreads the wing but their ministrations seem to be more than the weakened demon can handle and he doesn’t even present a cursory protest. They patch the wing with little trouble, only needing extra time to clean the wing around the similar tears. 

When they’re done, Mr Grant shifts to the white-winged man without needing to be asked. He seems relieved if anything, to be working on something more likely to be associated with Heaven than Hell. To Newts relief, the damage to the angels wings is mostly superficial. Sore, more than likely, but easily healed without anything complicated required of him. The vet frowns as he manipulates the wing, peeling back the blanket so he can follow it to what, on a bird, would be the shoulder joint. He presses lightly at the base and Newt jumps back as the man it’s attached to flinches. 

“I think it’s dislocated,” Mr Grant tells him. Newt blinks. “I think they both are. Don’t ask me _how.”_ He leans over, pressing down on the man’s back and wrenching up. The wing flails, one rapid pulse of feathers as the man screams. There’s a low thump from behind him and Newt turns to see the demons wings twisting weakly against his floor. “Sorry, sorry,” Mr Grant is gasping, stroking the limp wing soothingly in an act of reparation, “it’ll feel better in a moment, I promise, I’m sorry.” 

“Mr Grant?” Newt prompts. 

“I just made an angel scream,” the vet gasps, “that’s...oh God, I made an angel _scream_.” 

“His other wing,” Newt reminds him, “you said both of them.” 

“Right, right,” the vet agrees, mindlessly patting down the feathers, as he moves around the man, “I’m sorry, it’ll be over in a moment, I’m sorry.” He pushes down and wrenches once more and another gargled scream rips out of the angel. 

“ ** _Stop!_ ** ” the demon begs, wings beating weakly at the ground as it claws itself around enough to face them. Mr Grant sounds out a strangled inhale as he meets its full, golden irises. To Newt, the demon looks terrified. Beneath the vet, the angel gasps raggedly. “ _Stop,”_ the demon chokes, “ _please. Leave him alone.”_ Newt is amazed he’s even still conscious, although he did see them willing to face down Satan himself. He should stop underestimating them just because they crashed in his front garden at 2am. 

“We’re done,” Mr Grant defends himself, hands snapping away from the angel to hover unthreateningly in the surrender pose, “just setting his wings. I promise.” 

At the assurance, the fight seems to drain out of the demon, leaving him in a pitiful limp slump. The angel shudders beneath them and moans. “ _Collar,”_ the demon whines and Newt perks up. 

“I took that off already,” he shares quickly, “and the bracelets. That was the right decision, wasn’t it?” 

The demons eyes slide closed and he forces further words out of his throat with a visible effort. “ _Thank you.”_ Mr Grants eyes flick between Newt and the demon. 

The angel gasps out a word that might be a name and the demons eyes fly open again, staring at the angel helplessly. Newt can take a hint, and he scoops the angel up with his arms under their shoulders again, dragging it closer to the demon who weakly drags his unbroken wing closer to himself to provide room. As soon as he lays the angel down, the demon is reaching for him, fingers brushing the limp white wing. 

Newt retreats to join Mr Grant and find out if there’s anything he needs to do after the vet leaves, and whether Mr Grant is going to tattle to the nearest church or not. 

Aziraphale struggles to surface through the haze coating him. Whatever was done to his wings helped, however painfully it was accomplished. Somebody brushes against his outer primaries and his wing strains to meet them, recognising the trusted presence even under the haze. He doesn’t feel fully present, as though parts of him are struggling to remember how they fit together. 

He remembers what his hand feels like and reaches out blindly, feeling himself caught by reassuring fingers. Whatever happened to him, Crowley is here. The demon has a knack for pulling him out of dangerous situations and he isn’t pulling at Aziraphale in a hurry so they must be safe here. Wherever here is. He wishes he could remember what happened. 

Newt returns to find the demons unbroken wing draped over the angel and isn’t even surprised. There’s nothing more he can realistically do, not without dragging them apart and he gets the feeling that’s the worst thing he could be doing. So he leaves them to it. 

He manages to get through to Anathemas mobile and tells her about their new visitors. She isn’t thrilled at the idea of a demon in their house, although she concedes that she was the one who first invited the antichrist inside. He gets permission to let them keep sleeping on their living room floor although he is chided that he could have at least tried to get them onto the bed in the spare room. 

He tries to tempt them into some water or sandwiches before he goes to bed but the demon seems to have finally given up on consciousness and the angel only stares hazily through him. He leaves some out nearby for them anyway, in case they change their minds. 

They don’t move the entirety of the next day, to the point he starts checking on them at regular intervals to make sure they’re still breathing. Anathema returns late that evening, having prioritised returning home after his call. She gives them a cursory examination of her own before conceding that there’s not much else they can reasonably offer beside a safe haven. The angel has tucked itself closer into the demon at some point when he wasn’t looking and he has to admit that the demon looks more relaxed for it. 

They’re almost at the weeks mark when something changes. The angel blinks up at Newt when he stops by them and crouches down for his regular check and their eyes actually focus on him. “Do I know you,” they ask innocently. 

Newt blinks. “Yes, kind of,” he admits, “We saw each other during the Apocalypse. Or, the not-Apocalypse. None-alypse. There was a lot going on. You might not have noticed me.” 

“Oh,” the angel replies softly, “well. Hello again, then.” 

“Uh, hi,” Newt offers back, “I’m Newt, by the way. Don’t think we did names.” 

“Aziraphale,” he smiles gently, “Where are we, do you know?” 

“In my house,” Newt answers quickly, “Our house. Anathema’s house, I mean. She’s a witch. You might remember her better. She says you gave her a lift one time, that you borrowed her book.” 

The angel frowns and then sighs. “Ah, yes,” he agrees, “She’s not...mad about that, is she? Only, I don’t think I’m much in a fit state to offer reparations, at the moment.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Newt refutes, “She’d have kicked you out already if she had a problem. You’ve been here almost a week. How are you feeling? Are your wings okay?” 

The angel looks at him, startled. “I, ah, feel a little under the weather,” he admits, turning his head to look down at his limp wings as if only just realising he has them, “Oh my. Well, there’s a definite twinge to them but nothing that shouldn’t heal on its own, given a year or two.” 

“A _year?”_ Newt squeaks out. 

“Um, yes,” Aziraphale agrees sheepishly, “Did you...offer us shelter, I take it? I’m very grateful, although I assure you, we won’t be a bee in your bonnet for quite that long.” 

Newt nods numbly then blurts out, “what about your friend?” 

“Crowley?” the angel blinks, looking over at the motionless demon, “To be frank, I’m not entirely certain what brought us here. His energy _is_ worryingly low.” 

“He broke his wing,” Newt feels it important to point out, “amid...other things. Will he be alright?” 

The angel shrinks back as he speaks, their drawn gaze darting back to the demon. “He...what?” Aziraphale whispers. 

“His wing was broken,” Newt repeats, gentler, “and he had tears in them. We patched him up best we could. Your own wings were dislocated.” 

The angels wings twitch against his back as Newt outlines the damage. “I didn’t,” Aziraphale gasps, “I didn’t know that. Oh, _Crowley_.” One of the angels hands disentangles itself, pressing gently against the demons chest. The dark wing overtop of the angel curls lightly in answer. 

“You’re safe here,” Newt bites out, “at least, nobody’s come looking yet. I don’t know what happened to you either, I just found you both unconscious in the garden.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head wearily. “Thank you,” he whispers brokenly, “for your hospitality. I can’t imagine – we owe you more than you can fathom for your sanctuary.” 

“Can I get you anything?” Newt asks awkwardly, “A drink of water? Soup? There’s a bed, if you’d rather, we just decided it was better to make you comfortable out here with the, uhm, wings.” 

“Water would be wonderful,” the angel agrees quietly. 

“Right, okay, back in a moment,” Newt states, happy to be given a task. He leaves the angel wrapped up in the demons wing, hurrying away to tell Anathema that one of them has woken up. 

The fire has barely abated over his inflamed wings but his angel is calling to him, soft pleas to return to consciousness. Crowley follows them blindly, as he’d follow his angel anywhere. He cracks open stinging eyes to meet Aziraphale’s worried gaze, the angels fragile essence pulsing against his own. Aziraphale feels like a tidal wave crashing around his own pitiful puddle. He must be in worse shape than he thought. 

His angel offers a soft smile as he catches Crowley’s eyes, and he finds his wing twitching tighter around Aziraphale. It burns as though he’d dipped it into the sun itself but Aziraphale is awake and smiling at him and safe. “Did you bring us here, my dear,” Aziraphale asks him quietly, “However did you manage that, my dear, sweet, brave demon?” 

Crowley can’t convince words to come to his aid, so he tries to tempt his hands into action instead. Aziraphale threads his fingers through Crowley’s questing hand, pressing it against his own chest where Crowley can feel the reassuring thrum of the angels core. The fire in his wings becomes that little bit less important when compared to the evidence of life swirling through his angels being. 

Vibrations echo lowly through Crowley’s skull and then feet are shuffling into view. His wing twitches reflexively across Aziraphale’s back. “Morning,” the human male greets him, “Water.” Aziraphale makes no move to release him, although he nods gratefully. The human places it on the floor, within easy reach. “You’re awake as well then?” Crowley eyes him warily, not sure what to make of him. 

“This is Newt,” Aziraphale tells him softly, thumb stroking a reassuring rhythm against the back of his hand, “he’s been helping us.” 

Crowley accepts that. If the human has been helping his angel, then he shouldn’t be worried about him. He hums a wordless noise of appreciation for the humans efforts. 

“I do apologise,” Aziraphale addresses the human quietly, “Our wings are an extension of our true form, and with the harm he has suffered...” His angels hand shifts from his chest to brush across his brow and he relaxes into the touch. “He’s very grateful, even if he’s unable to voice it. We both are.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Newt dismisses easily, “We apocalypse survivors have to stick together, right?” 

Aziraphale smiles hopefully back and Crowley nuzzles into his angels wrist. His wings burn in invisible fire but Aziraphale is here. He’s good with the day to day stuff. He’ll make everything alright again. 

It’s a decade before the fire in Crowley’s wings truly begins to fade. Aziraphale is delighted when he begins to use proper nouns and verbs again instead of simple whining and purring and hissing to share his thoughts. The angel tucked his wings away once his own injuries faded, ethereal limbs safely stashed off the face of the material plane. Crowley can’t wait until he can do the same, can banish the troublesome things without worrying about the ache of a cold wind or the burn in slowly healing skin. 

They’re visited by the health expert on occasion, the one that Newt consulted when he first found them in his garden. They all know he’s a vet, but the humans like to pretend otherwise; Crowley wonders if the humans think they’d take offence to being treated by an animal doctor. Aziraphale is just grateful that the man knows enough about wings to be of use and shows no inclination of sharing their presence with Heaven. 

He dreams sometimes, of plummeting after Aziraphale, wind tearing through his hopeless wings as he tries to force them into line for long enough to reach him. Of the desperate attempt to control their landing with wind whistling through open gaps and essential feathers lost. He dreams of Aziraphale’s wings streaming into the sky past him, his poor angels muscles torn and useless as they tumble. He wakes gasping and whimpering and finds himself tugged into Aziraphale’s lap, his head guided to the reassuring pulse of a heartbeat and powerful thrum of an angelic core. 

His wings burn for at least a decade, and the ache lasts for even longer still but Crowley remembers the sharp spike of panic as they spiralled past his goal. Remembers the deliberate twist of his wings, knowing what the consequence would be and the agonising hope as they crashed that here was a chance. Here was a sliver of relief that could keep them whole, could keep them from fading miserably away or being torn apart. 

Newt and Anathema had saved their lives; spared their existences. Newt had slipped the binding sigils from around his angels throat, freed him of the brutal cuffs that ringed his wrists, recruited somebody to return the use of his wings to him. Crowley’s wing had been bound, his wounds patched, his angel returned to him. The decade and more is worth it, for the future it has gained them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a vet (as if this was in doubt). If you should find yourself in a similar situation as poor Newton, please do the responsible thing and contact the relevant veterinary authorities. And maybe medical authorities. Your local religious authorities may or may not be suitable.


End file.
